


A Rare Delicacy

by wargoddess



Category: Titan AE (2000)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-24
Updated: 2005-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 13:41:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cale finds out how bad things are for the human race, and especially one subgroup of it.  Korso assures him he's not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Rare Delicacy

    _I hate this fucking place._

     It was the thought that usually woke him, every morning, after sending him to bed, every night.  He tried not to think it in between.  During the day, it was dangerous; salvage work was risky as hell, and spending too much time bitching about his life---even within his own head---would bring a quick end to that life.  Probably nastily.  During the night, it meant he'd never get any sleep, which was just as harmful to his daytime concentration.  But at the beginning of the day and the end of the day... then it hit him, always.  The rust, the womprats, the monotony.  The constant barrage of racist crap from people who spewed it out because they were stuck here too and had nothing better to do than torment the homeless biped to make themselves feel better.  The frustration of knowing that this was all he had to look forward to.  Every day.  For the rest of his life. 

     Alone. 

     Oh, there was Tek, but Tek was... Tek.  He loved the guy, loved him better than the shiteating father who'd given him life, but Tek wasn't human.  He didn't, couldn't, understand.  There were billions of Tek's people out there, somewhere, a whole planet of them.  Two, if he remembered his stellar history right.  How could it mean anything to Tek that the small Human boy he'd adopted was one of only, what, a  few hundred thousand?  Were there even that many?  Or had they already passed that crucial point of no return---the point beyond which no matter how much they fucked and had kids, they no longer had enough genetic diversity to survive as a species?  Only another Human could share that with him.  And since Alex had died in that stupid accident, there hadn't been one of those on the salvage station for three years.  He was alone, and might as well be forever.

     He sighed and flung an arm over his eyes---and abruptly became aware that something was wrong.  There was a sheet covering him.  He never slept with sheets; the station was always set to the preferred temperature of the majority of the species on it, and that was always a bit too warm for Human comfort.  His arm hurt.  And he was lying on something soft, not the usual hard metal platform he'd grown used to over the years...

     He opened his eyes, and remembered.  _Christ!_

     How could he have forgotten?  The fight with two other salvagers.  Then Korso, come to tell him his father's ring was the key to Humankind's salvation.  Then the mad flight from the Drej.  And then---

     He sat up, rubbing his arm.  It still ached a little where the Drej had shot him.  His leg, too.  Best he could expect, he supposed, from Akima's portable field-medicine healing kit; Korso's ship obviously wasn't up to military standard in every respect.

 _I'm really here._ He looked around, drinking in the unfamiliar outlines of the cabin---rust-free outlines! _I'm really away from the station. I don't have to get up and do that shit job and eat that shit food and deal with those shitty people. I'm free._ Even the air here smelled cleaner. The oxygen recyclers actually worked.

     But---

     Tek was gone---left behind, to fend for himself as best he could, an old blind Arberian with no money and no way off the station.  And he'd just left behind the only life he'd ever known.  He'd hated it, but fuck---no one had ever tried to kill him in it.

     _Not often, anyway._

     He got up and went over to the sonishower, not even bothering to strip off his clothing as was customary.  The door closed behind him and the cleansing waves washed over him, scrubbing away everything---the sweat of fear, dried blood, the lingering ozone reek of Drej.  And for ten minutes he just stood there, hands planted against the wall, head bowed, trying to master the horrible spiraling fear that surged through him and mocked him with be-careful-what-you-wish-for clarity.

     At last, though, the wallow ended, and he managed to pull himself together.  Enough, at least, to turn the shower off and get out.  As for what to do after that, he had no clue.  It would be days before they reached Sessharrim.  He was among strangers.  With a race of blood-maddened genocidal energy beings out for his balls on a platter, or at least his hand.

     _Can't think of that.  Gotta stop thinking of all of this.  Or I'll go nuts and Korso'll take my fucking hand off himself._

     Korso.  Yes.  Korso ran the place; surely a ship this big had things that needed doing.  Chores.  He'd go ask Korso to put him to work.  If he could keep busy... yes.  He left the cabin and, after wandering a bit, found the bridge.

     But Korso wasn't there.  One of the crew members---the bitchy one with the legs---snarled something at him about the captain and the cargo hold, and he left before she could actually pay attention to him long enough to notice he was Human and take exception to his breathing her air.

     _Then again, she works for a Human captain..._

     But that could have more to do with the fact that Korso was wealthy, in the scale of things out here.  He had a working ship, and a good one---one of the best from the old Earth military, well-maintained and well-armed.  With the right clientele, he could make steady shipping runs, haul valuable cargo.  Which meant he could pay a regular salary.  Since the Drej's constant pogroms had pretty much screwed up the galactic economy, that meant this was a pretty choice job.  Anybody could get over their prejudices, he figured, if money was on the line.  And from what he'd seen, Korso was tough but fair with his crew.  Typical military---disciplined, but caring.  There were worse bosses out there.

     _Maybe, when all this is over, I can talk him into hiring an experienced salvager.  Nobody handles trash better than Cale Tucker._

     He snorted to himself, and felt better for the first time that morning.

     Korso was indeed in the cargo hold, cursing to himself while working on a little planetary skif that had seen better days.  As Cale entered the hold, the older man let loose a stream of obscenities and threw his fusion torch into the engine hard enough to send up a shower of sparks.

     "Better watch it, Cap'n.  You'll have a heart attack, and then I'll get myself a nice big ship of my very own."

     Korso jerked and cursed again, then turned to glare at him for a moment before finally relaxing.  "Like hell, kid.  And sneaking up on me isn't going to do it, either.  I don't scare easy.  Although I do get mad as hell, and---"  He turned to glare balefully at the engine.  "---if that could kill me, _this_ little bitch would have me in the cremator already."

     "So get the little guy to look at it."

     "Gune?  He'd turn the damn thing into a time machine---or a jack-in-the-box, depending on which stupid mad-scientist whim hit him first.  He works best when I make him stick to navigation."  Korso sighed and ran fingers through his short hair.  "Stith would get madder than me and stomp it to pieces.  Preed's all butterfingers with precision mechanics.  Akima pulled an eighteen-hour shift yesterday and I can't make her get up for this.  So that just leaves me."  He blinked, then glanced around, half-smiling.  "Unless you just happen to be a mechanical genius?"

     _So much for being a fifth wheel._

     "Actually," Cale said, allowing himself a smirk, "Now that you mention it, I do."  He came over and leaned against the skif, examining the engine.  Korso raised eyebrows, then with a sardonic bow stepped aside to give him room.

     He'd only begun to get a sense of the problem---one of the crystal nets, he suspected, although having a fusion torch slammed into its dialation shaft probably hadn't helped---when he became aware of silence, and scrutiny.  Surprised, he glanced up and caught the older man looking him up and down, thoughtfully.

     Cale raised his eyebrows, then half-smiled.  "What, still checking to make sure you've got the right guy?"

     Korso chuckled; it sounded like a bad skif engine, low and rough.  "I know I've got the right guy---the map wouldn't show up for anybody else.  I was just thinking you've grown up nice."

     Cale blinked, and felt his cheeks warm.  "Why, thank you, Cap'n, I'll be sure to convey my appreciation to my parents for their genetic contribution, when I see 'em in the afterlife.  Soon, probably."

     "Not if I can help it.  And don't be a wise-ass.  I just meant you're more grown-up than I expected.  I figured you'd be some snot-nosed lightweight.  But you're obviously someone who can handle himself.  You'd've made a good recruit, in the old days."  He smiled, lopsidedly.  "'Course, we'd've had to do something about your hair."

     It was high praise, and ordinarily it would have made his chest swell with pride. He was as susceptible to flattery as anybody, and no one had ever told him he was grown-up before.  But it seemed his earlier melancholy hadn't dissipated altogether. He sighed and straightened, slipping hands into his pockets.  Korso blinked in surprise.

     "What?"

"Nothing. I was just thinking... that if I look like somebody who can handle himself, it's because I can. Because I've had to, ever since Tek's sight went. I've been taking care of me and him too. That happened when I was eight." He lowered his eyes, fighting the depression even as it fought to return. "Even before that, though, things were rough. I guess my childhood ended when Earth was destroyed. When Dad left. Tek tried, but... he wasn't really a replacement."

     A hand---warm and compassionate and strange---came to rest on his shoulder, and he blinked in surprise and looked up into the older man's understanding expression.  "You miss him.  You're worried about him."

     He set his jaw, and deliberately decided which "him" he felt like talking about.  "Tek?  Yeah, I guess.  But he can take care of himself.  Arberians don't use their eyes much anyway.  I just..."  He sighed, suddenly irrationally loathe to let this man see his discomfort.

     The hand squeezed his shoulder, and he frowned again at the strangeness of it.  "What?"

     "I just... what the hell am I _doing_ out here, Korso?"  He looked up at the man, feeling his throat tighten, suddenly, his guts clench.  "What did you---  No, I know it wasn't you, I know the Drej would have found me and I'd be converter-paste by now if you hadn't rescued me.  It's just that... yesterday I hated my life, but I _knew_ it.  It was familiar.  Now I'm gallivanting around the galaxy with a bunch of strangers and a glowing hand and..."  He faltered, then bowed his head, taking deep breaths.  If he said anything more, he'd lose it altogether and start bawling.  And more than anything else he didn't want to do that in front of Korso.  He didn't know why, but he knew that it was the truth.

     Korso sighed, taking hold of his other shoulder, doubling the strangeness.  "You're here because your father decided to make you the savior of Humankind," he said, his gravelly voice surprisingly soft.  "I can't say I agree with it.  Not 'cos there's anything wrong with you, but just... it's a heavy burden, and I can't exactly say I envy you.  You've got a responsibility to your species to do whatever you can to help it survive.  All of us do, really.  It's just that in your case, that means more than just salvaging or smuggling or making your quota of babies on some drifter colony." 

     In spite of himself, Cale started and chuckled.  "Me?  Quota of babies?  Yeah."

     "No joke, kid."  Korso smiled ruefully, letting him go.  It was then that Cale recognized the strangeness.  It was warmth.  Human body-heat.  They were one of the few endothermic species in the galaxy, and it had been a long time since anyone had touched him and been warm.  The last time had been--- 

     ---no.  He didn't want to think about Alex.  Not when he was already on the verge of tears.  He forced himself to pay attention to what Korso was saying, to distract himself.

     "I guess you didn't hear.  A lot more men than women were killed in the war because women dominated the aerial and spacebound military. Men were on the ground, and they died there. So now there's a real shortage.  One of us for every twelve women, or something like that."  Korso shrugged and half-smiled.  "You're young, healthy, brainy, got all your teeth.  You go to a drifter colony, and they'll have you screwing your brains out 'for the good of the race'."

     "Fuck."  His face reddened, first at the concept and then at the inadvertent double entendre.

     Korso laughed, then sobered.  "Yeah, well.  Like I said, you can do a lot more for your people with _this_ \---" he pointed to Cale's hand, then his crotch, "than with that.  So that's part of it."

     Cale absorbed this, then shook his head, unable to comprehend it.  "I knew things were bad.  Didn't know they were that bad, though."

     "Yeah, well.  You weren't exactly in the thick of Human civilization, on the Tau station.  I'm not surprised you didn't hear."  Korso shrugged and released his hand, turning to lean over the engine again, scowling at it.

     Cale watched him, debating whether to ask, and finally blurted, "Is... is it over?  Is it even worth trying?  What if we're past the magic number?  If there are so few men left---"

     Korso raised his eyebrows, glancing at him, then sighed.  "We're not past it yet.  But we're damn close.  That's why the Council of Colonies---what passes for a government among the drifters---passed the quota law.  You've got six kids to make, sometime in your life.  At least two male.  All with different women."

     Cale stared at him; Korso smiled again in that tired, rueful way.  "Yeah," he continued, answering questions Cale hadn't even thought to ask.  "Sounds great on the surface.  Fuck your brains out, make brats left and right, and you're not obligated to take care of any of 'em.  But..."  He sighed and looked at the engine again, although this time his eyes didn't focus on any particular part.  "It sucks, really.  We're going backward.  On some of the colonies you've got men keeping harems, girl-babies being treated as second-class, all the same stupid shit I thought we grew out of a thousand years ago.  And if you're the sort of guy who _likes_ the idea of raising his kids, it sucks more.  The kids belong to the women.  And the women don't have to bother with you unless they want to.  Council law.  Keeps things neat."  There was bitterness in his voice.  His hands, Cale saw, were fisted in his pockets.

     "How many do you have?"  Cale heard himself ask.

     Korso smiled again, thinly.  "Seven.  Twins with the last set.  Only one son, though.  So I'm not done, yet."

     Seven.  Cale hadn't seen seven Humans in fifteen years.

     "Do you get to see any of them?"

     "One or two.  The ones whose mothers don't mind me coming around."

     "Buddha."

     "Yeah, well."  Korso shrugged again, smiling, although this time Cale saw the shadows of pain in his face.  "It's just one of the little inconveniences that comes with being a member of a nearly-extinct race.  Believe me, that one's the least of 'em."

     And the implications of Alex's death were suddenly that much more powerful, that much more selfishly tragic, in this grand scale. 

     _Oh, shit.  Oh hell.  That means--- oh, goddamn it, it's not fair._

     Korso glanced up at him, frowning a bit.  "Kid?  You're wandering."

     "Oh.  Sorry."  He tried to drag his mind back to the present, focus on the engine, but he couldn't.  Six different women, maybe more.  And men as rare as one in thirteen.  He could get used to it, maybe.  Maybe there'd be a few others.  But they'd be so rare and precious, and the whole weight of species-duty would make them so hard to find...

     Korso reached out and waved a hand in front of Cale's face; it took him a full second to notice.  "What?"

     "You still thinkin' about the quota?  It's not that bad, kid.  You're nineteen.  Hell, when I was nineteen, my dick got hard when the wind blew.  And you're handsome, got a nice body.  You'll fill your quota before you're twenty-five, mark my words.  Now: the engine, Mr. Genius?"

     _...you're handsome, got a nice body..._   Cale blinked and stared at Korso, unable to think, a sharp instinctive thrill running through him.  Could he---?  No.  It was too much to hope for.  It had been just a casual observation, not a compliment.  Not a flirtation.  Never mind that Korso himself was handsome in a grizzled sort of way, and trim with not a gram of old-man's paunch on him, and hard enough to bend Cale into a pretzel.  Still kept up his military PT, no doubt.  And obviously his dick still worked...

     No, don't think about that.  Think about...

     _...you've grown up nice..._

     _...little inconveniences... that one's the least of 'em..._

     _Oh, shit._

     Korso reached out, and one of those warm, large hands touched his shoulder again, the cloth and the bare skin above his tattoo, and for a moment his whole body was focused on that point of contact.  What would that warmth feel like above him, against him?  What would that warmth feel like _in_ him...?

     "Kid?"

     Cale looked back at him stupidly, his mind racing.

     _This is nuts.  If things are going backwards for women---  If I'm wrong, he'll kick my ass.  Akima's nice.  She's interested.  I should---but I don't want her.  I want---_

     _Oh, what the hell._

     "What about," he heard himself say, "the ones who don't want to do it with six women?  What happens to the ones who don't want women at all?"

     Korso blinked in surprise, and then Cale saw it, in his eyes.  Just a quick flicker, swiftly masked.  A flare of eagerness, crazy hope, quick and searching.  Gone almost before he could recognize it.  Almost.

     "Nobody gives a shit what people like that do," Korso said, slowly, softly, his voice neutral.  "If they can find each other, and as long as they fill their quota, nobody can complain."

     Nothing revealing, in that casual comment.  They.  Their.  But Cale knew.

     "It must be hard," he said, just as slowly and softly, looking into Korso's eyes so the older man would read the messages there.  "The finding part.  We're so rare, I mean.  It must be---"

     Distantly, he heard a sound---metal on metal.  The torch had fallen out of the shaft, because something had jarred the engine.  He wasn't sure what it was, although he suspected it was his butt, which had been swiftly jammed up against the stern of the skif with both his own and Korso's weight.  No way to tell.  Because Korso's mouth was on his, hard enough to bruise, hungry enough to send his mind reeling, and he couldn't exactly pay attention to that and the engine, too.  He wasn't that much of a genius.

     Korso pulled back abruptly, and searched his face again, and again Cale read his eyes---hesitation, uncertainty, guilt.  "Kid---"

     Cale caught the front of Korso's shirt in his hand.  "I'm not a kid."

     Eyes widened; Korso swallowed.  "You ain't exactly ready for retirement, Cale."

     "I'm old enough to know what I want."

     "You don't know _me_."  And now there was pain in the faded blue eyes, guilt that went deeper than mere I-can't-sleep-with-my-ex-boss'-kid angst, but Cale couldn't read that and didn't care.  "You don't know anything about me.  What I've been up to for the last fifteen years.  I'm not---"

     "I don't care," Cale said, harshly.  "You came back for me, however long it took you.  My father never did.  That means I trust you.  That means you _give a shit_.  That's all I ever asked of anybody."

     "You shouldn't."  Korso's eyes hooded; he looked away.  "You shouldn't trust me, kid.  I'm an old bastard who'd kill his own mother if the Drej hadn't got her first."

     "Yeah, well."  Cale swallowed, then reached out and put his hand on Korso's crotch.  Ah---warmth here, too, hotter than a mere hand, and hard despite Korso's protests.  He stroked it, shivering as an answering heat of his own moved through him.  "I'm not exactly an angel, either, in case you haven't noticed."

     Korso swore, swiftly, and looked up at him again, hunger plain in his expression, wavering.

     "C'mon," Cale whispered, jerking his head.  "In the skif?"

     That was enough.  Korso sighed and pulled him close, forehead resting against his for a moment.  Delicious warmth, all along the front of his body.  He was going to have heat-stroke at this rate.  But what a way to die.

     "...Yeah."

     Cale took his hand and turned, pulling him around to the door of the skif.  The top was down; easier to hop over the door than open it.  Korso leaped in with him, easily; definitely full-G physical training.  _God, he must fuck like a fusion piston._

     He undressed, feeling Korso's eyes on him and loving every second of it, and lay down on the back seat.  Korso watched him for a moment, then turned to open a panel in the door.  He took out a medical kit.

     Cale laughed and sat up.  "I'm not a virgin, Cap---"

     " _Korso._   I don't wanna hear you hollering 'Captain' when you come, it'll freak me out."  He took out a little tube of---ah, of course.  Lubricating jelly.  Meant to be used with portable healing probes, but useful for all sorts of things.  He tossed it; Cale caught it.

     "Listen," Korso said, pulling off his shirt.  Muscles like a sculpture.  Cale tried not to drool visibly.  "This doesn't mean we're married.  I meant what I said.  As long as we fill our quota, nobody cares, but that doesn't mean we go rubbing it in anybody's face.  People are too anxious these days, and scapegoats are too easy."

     "I'm not an idiot, either," Cale said, harshly.  "I don't want anything more from you than this, okay?  I just met you yesterday, for St. Peter's sake.  Just shut up and fuck me.  Please.  It's been three years, I'm nineteen, my dick gets hard when the wind blows, you're fucking gorgeous, and I may never meet anybody like you again in my life.  Quit trying to explain everything and just... shit.  Just come on."

     Korso blinked, then smiled lopsidedly.  "Okay, then."

     Korso stripped off his pants, then came over and lay down beside him on the narrow seat, reaching over to take the tube of jelly from Cale.  Cale moved aside to make room for him, but only a little; heat radiated from Korso's skin and he wanted to feel it, feel all of it, feel it closer.  Korso smirked a little as if sensing his thoughts, and popped open the tube, squeezing some of its contents over two of his fingers.  Brusquely he slid a knee under Cale's and lifted his leg, and before Cale could gasp those two fingers were deep inside him, stroking slowly in and out and rotating a little.

     "J--- _Jesus,_ Korso, anybody ever tell you about foreplay?"

     "Oh, sure.  This is just advance preparation.  Military tactics, kid.  Scouting out the territory."  And he grinned and leaned over Cale, mouth finding his again, more gently this time.  His beard scratched occasionally against Cale's skin, filling him with a momentary mix of envy and fascination---it would be years before he had one of his own---and striking an incongruous chord with the steady vibrations of pleasure coming from further down his body, as Korso's fingers moved relentlessly.  And with the softness of Korso's tongue, which explored his mouth with great thoroughness before finally withdrawing with a soft slurp, as if pleased with the taste of him.  He panted a little to catch his breath; Korso's eyes narrowed a little in amusement.  He leaned down again, this time mouthing Cale's shoulder and then settling on his nipple.  He pressed in firmly with his tongue, then teased it up to delicate hardness, flicking and lapping.

     "Oh, shit,"  Cale hissed, closing his eyes when the cargo bay ceiling reeled.  He put a hand on Korso's head to keep him there, but there was little he could grip or use to hold onto him--- _fucking crew-cut!_ \---and after a few devastating minutes of pleasure, Korso pulled away to move lower.  He groaned in frustration, but shut up abruptly as warmth enclosed the erection that had been aching unattended for the last twenty minutes.  A tongue tickled the tip, then swirled around the glans to its base, pressing inward; in the same instant he felt a gentle suction.  He sucked in air, swiftly.  It felt as if every nerve in his body were being sucked toward that one spot, and when they all got there they were going to throw the biggest party in creation---

     Korso pulled free, abruptly, then chuckled.  "Whoa, there, big fella.  Gotta work on that self-control, I see.  S'the problem with being nineteen; lots of get up and go, no staying power."

     Cale was writhing, doing everything he could not to pull away from the man and curl up to jack himself off quickly; his nerves were on fire.  Only those two fingers, insidious and insistent, pulsing gently within him, kept him in place.  Those felt too good.

     "Don't tease me you son of a bitch, keep going, I was almost _there_ \---"

     "I know.  Want more foreplay now?"  He grinned and sat up, lifting Cale's legs up to his shoulders.

     Cale shouted once, hoarsely, in sheer frustration, and then pushed himself up on one elbow.  "I'm going to kick your ass!"

     Korso pulled his fingers out and thrust himself in, so swiftly that Cale didn't feel the transition; suddenly the fingers were just _bigger_ and deeper and hotter and Inshallah he was going to cry like a baby if Korso touched him _there_ too many more times.  He flopped back on the seat, arching instinctively, uttering a little whimper with each delicious pulse.

     "What was that?"  Korso grinned, his eyes drinking in Cale's helpless writhings.  He gripped Cale's hips and began thrusting, exactly the way Cale liked it---oh, hell, how had he known?---hard and deep and pushing up just a little to hit him in all the places he liked best, grunting softly with effort and pleasure.  "You say something about kicking my ass, genius?"

     _You fucker don't you tease me this feels too good I'm not going to last._ But he didn't say it aloud.  He couldn't manage it.  Or coherent thought, for that matter.

     So he jerked and gasped and moaned and when the time came, howled like an animal, helpless as the pleasure caught him in its teeth and savaged him and only Korso's gravelly laughter and jibes about youthful impatience kept him chained to reality.  And because Korso hadn't come yet, he pulled out and flipped Cale over and massaged him back to half-readiness, and just after his muscles stopped quivering from the last orgasm Korso pulled his hips up and shoved his face down and fucked him like a fusion-piston, one hand working Cale's cock until he _did_ cry, it felt so good that he sobbed and came with soft moans into Korso's hand while Korso threw back his head and cursed in three alien languages and slammed into him six times and then finally sagged onto Cale's back, panting and twitching a little.

     Then they rested together.  And as soon as the sweat dried the urge overtook them both again and this time Cale teased Korso into groaning readiness and then rode him until the other man shouted wordlessly to the metal rafters.  And they slept for a little while and when Cale woke he was hard again and Korso's warm hand was on him, gently jerking him off, and he groaned and gasped out "Captain" anyway, and the captain didn't seem to mind much.

     And finally, they'd both had enough.  For the time being.

     "Nineteen," Korso murmured, shaking his head in amazement as Cale gasped for air in the aftermath.  "Damn.  You are going to have no trouble filling your quota."

     Cale chuckled, still a little breathless.  "Can't do this much with women.  At least, I don't think I can.  They don't turn me on like this."

     "And I do?"  Korso shook his head, amused.  "You could do better, kid.  I'm old enough to be your father, and your father would probably kick my ass if he knew about this."

     Cale chuckled.  "My father's not here."  He exhaled, bone-tired but full of a fiery warmth and a contentment he hadn't felt in years.  "And you're the best I've had."

     "I gotta get you out more."

     Cale chuckled, but half-heartedly; weariness had stolen over him and this time it would take more than a quick nap to banish.  And maybe when he woke up, Korso would still be here, and he'd show the old man that stamina wasn't just the province of nineteen-year-olds.  "You talk too much, Korso.  Go to sleep."

     Korso fell silent, and Cale relaxed, drifting.  Korso lay awake for a long while, gazing up at the ceiling, brow furrowed and eyes shadowed, but Cale didn't see it.  It would be many days before he realized what Korso had been trying to warn him against.  Many more, still, before he forgave himself for missing the darker messages that had been in the old marine's eyes, behind the lust.  For the present, it was enough that this strange little adventure had finally shown a positive side, and it was enough that he finally had some hope for the future.  It was enough, more than anything else, that he was not alone.

     He closed his eyes, and for the first time in fifteen years his mind was quiet as he fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted somethingmumble years ago on the RareSlash ML. If it looks familiar, congratulations! You've got a great memory.


End file.
